


Accepting Fate

by teh_gelfling



Series: Bits and Bobs [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Bestiality, Exhibitionism, M/M, Mechpreg, PWP, Slash, Sticky, Voyeurism, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 03:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2907494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teh_gelfling/pseuds/teh_gelfling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is utter, self-indulgent crap. I had no intentions of actually continuing Breeding Cycle, but here I am writing more.</p><p>If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Accepting Fate

**Author's Note:**

> This is utter, self-indulgent crap. I had no intentions of actually continuing Breeding Cycle, but here I am writing more.
> 
> If you feel like it, leave a comment or critique. I love knowing what my readers like and don't like about my stories.

“Primus, how much longer am I going to be carrying? My plating is dull, I need _twice_ the energon that Ultra Magnus uses, and I can't transform. This is _ridiculous_.”

Ratchet shot the golden frontliner a glare, but it went unnoticed in favour of his little diatribe. The reason for Sunstreaker's condition skittered around the berth, chittering to himself and twitching his antennae excitedly. Ratchet had already had to shoo him off the berth twice, and that was just in the eight minutes since Sunstreaker and Bob had arrived for the appointment.

“I really don't know, Sunstreaker. There's not exactly precedent for this. I don't even know what the Swarm's breeding patterns are, and this... ah... litter of yours only has half that coding, and potentially defective Swarm coding at that. Bob's not exactly a normal Insecticon.”

“I know that,” he snapped. “What do you mean, _litter_?”

He waved a scanner at the mech. “There's more than one newspark. Maybe as many as five. If you'd stop squirming around, I _might_ be able to get an accurate reading.”

“I can't. My valve itches. Deep inside, you know? Not like the heat, but sort of?”

“Primus.” Ratchet scrubbed a hand over his face. “Your frame is needing extra materials to build the sparklings' frames. You've been taking those supplements? Up the dosage to twice that, _every_ time you fuel, or it's going to get worse.”

“Can't get much worse than what I've already been through.”

Bob whined and put his primary hands on the berth beside his mate/master. More mate than master right now, though. The white mech who gave good scritches was paying far too much attention to his mate, and Bob wasn't sure he liked it. He'd put up with it until they left, but he didn't want the mech to get the idea that his mate was anyone's other than Bob's. If the white mech made to mount his mate, he'd have to fight for him.

He'd really prefer to mount his mate in front of their entire Swarm so there could be no doubt or confusion over to whom his mate belonged. There was too much of that already; mechs smelling of rut touching his mate, paying far too much attention to his mate, laughing at Bob when he tried to make his claim known. Rutting on his mate publicly would be more than appropriate to stake his claim, and filling him with his fluids would provide for the clutch growing within.

Chitter-chrr.

Yes, he should do that, and sooner than later, if the scent coming off his mate was any indication. He snuffled discreetly at Sunstreaker's groin, drinking in that heady odour of needy gravid mech so very much like that of breeding cycle. His spike onlined immediately, hitting his panel with an audible thunk before the metal could retract, and he chittered at the feeling of cold air on his heated spike as it twitched and strained under him.

Secondary hands reached out to pull his mate off the berth and down onto the floor, but gently, so gently. There should not be any forcing of pleasure, no matter how ready Bob was. But he really needed to be inside his mate before he got too full. He'd learned that from the breeding cycle. And his spike was growing with every passing second.

He tried to convey the urgency of his predicament, but these mechs didn't communicate properly. They made odd noises and moved their mouths a lot. No antennae to twitch, no sniffing of smells. _So_ uncivilised.

“The frag!?” There was a sudden change in the scent of the white mech, but Bob wasn't interested at the moment in figuring out what it was.

“Bob, no! Not _here_ , not now,” Sunstreaker hissed, even as his frame began to respond. His valve no longer itched. It _burned_. With a willing and exposed spike so close, it was all he could do to stay on the berth. His hands clamped on the edge, and his valve clenched down on nothing. Bob pulled at him again, all four optics blazing bright with his sudden charge. The Insecticon's spike bumped up against his shin guard and his hips twitched.

Sunstreaker _whined_.

“You going to let him, Sunny?” Ratchet sounded... resigned? At least it didn't sound upset or disgusted.

“You're joking, right? Give in and just let him fuck me right here in front of you? Not going to be humiliated like that. Bad enough I gave in when I was in heat and there was no one else around; look where it got me.”

Bob whined and tried to climb up on the berth, since his mate wasn't moving.

“If you were alone with him, would it be different?”

Sunstreaker didn't answer, too busy attempting to fend off his amorous bug. His face said it all, though.

Oh, yes, it would be different. Had been, _was_ different since the heat that had left him sparked up, but _only_ in the privacy of his hab suite. Mechs would treat him as even more of an outsider than they already did if they knew he willingly let an Insecticon frag him.

Bob got his helm in between his mate's thighs and swiped his tongue across the scorching panel covering his mate's valve. He was caught between those thighs when they clamped around his helm, but he kept licking around the seams until Sunstreaker's legs fell open as he slumped back onto the berth with a groan, and that panel snapped aside. Eagerly he plunged his long tongue into the wet valve, wriggling it around. In and in it went, deeper and deeper, until it touched the cervical gate at the bottom of the gestation chamber.

Sunstreaker jerked upright as sudden overload slammed into him. He curled over his bug as he shuddered, that tongue still inside and moving. “Bob,” he gasped out. “ _Please_.”

“Sunny,” and no, Ratchet's voice didn't just crack, “I'm going to lower the berth so he can reach you easier.” The golden mech gave no sign that he'd heard.

Bob withdrew his tongue as the berth smoothly lowered and replaced it with his secondary hands. This was good; not mating position, but then this wasn't a breeding or a proper claiming, and his mate's valve was well within range for his spike now. He just needed to make sure his mate would be able to take him without much, preferably any, pain, but he had to stretch him as quickly as possible. It wouldn't be much longer before his spike was at the same stage it was in when he'd bred his mate. The pain he'd caused was regrettable, and completely avoidable, so long as he was inside his mate before he was too large.

The overload had somewhat relaxed his golden mate, and he was easy enough to stretch. He had both small hands all the way in the clenching valve when another overload rippled through it. He withdrew carefully as it passed and draped himself over the golden frame, lining his spike up with the opening.

He was aware of the white mech, healer of hurts and giver of good scritches, watching, leaning back against another metal slab and struggling with his own need to rut. Bob could scent it now, and it was good. It wasn't nearly as good as it would be to mount his mate in proper position in front of the entire Swarm, but it was good enough for the moment. He locked optics with the mech as he plunged into his mate, an ululating cry emanating from deep within his frame. A claiming cry, letting any and all who heard it know that this mech was _his_ and he would tolerate no other claims.

He could move this time, and move he did, hammering into his mate and enjoying the grunts and groans and screams of pleasure from the mech under him. His spike swelled, small plates pushing out away from the shaft, pointing backward and locking him inside his mate. He ground against pelvic plating, spike twitching and pulsing in time with what would have been hard thrusts had he the freedom to move any direction other than in.

Finally his spike bumped up against the cervical gate. He ground against it until he felt it spiral open and the very tip of his spike poked through. The rest of the head sealed against the rim, and oh, he could feel the overload coming.

Sunstreaker writhed on the berth, completely impaled upon the Insecticon's spike. He was so full already, and Bob's overload hadn't even hit yet. He was going to be _packed_. The thought only made him hotter.

He reached down to stroke belly plating, then the base of the huge spike buried deep inside him. Bob made a rather strangled sound as his spike jumped and throbbed, but didn't spill its fluids. Sunstreaker tried again, this time giving it a little squeeze in between strokes.

Bob shattered. His spike spasmed within his mate and hot, sticky transfluid jetted from it, flooding the gestational tank.

Sunstreaker _screamed_. His vocaliser cut out from the intensity. Static clouded his vision, lines of white shot through the blue. It was just like the heat cycle all over again. Packed so full. There was no place for the excess transfluid to go, and it just kept pumping into him, expanding his tank enough that his plating gapped slightly at the seams. Primus, no mech had ever had him feeling so good, even during interface. Fragging an Insecticon may have been practically taboo, but it was certainly worth it as far as the golden mech was concerned.

And then he remembered Ratchet. Oh, Primus, he'd given in, just like that, with the medic watching. He'd _forgotten_ Ratchet was there when Bob stuck his tongue inside him. He'd seen it all. He'd know how good the Insecticon made him feel. How he thoroughly enjoyed having the bug's huge spike in him, so much more than any other. He'd know how broken Sunstreaker was, that he'd prefer to interface with an Insecticon over a proper mech.

“You all right, kid? He didn't hurt you?” Ratchet's voice was a bit scratchy and strained. Was that disgust in his tone? Sunstreaker couldn't tell.

“Fine. No. Gonna be stuck like this for a breem, though.” His face was flaming and he turned it away. He didn't want to see the revulsion that was sure to be on the medic's face. He scritched at Bob's helm in an attempt to distract himself and the bug purred in response.

There was something muttered, too quiet for Sunstreaker to catch, then, “Ah, I'll just leave you two alone, then. Couple things just came up that I need to take care of. When you're able, get some energon – you and Bob both – and clean up in the 'rack over there. Ping me when you're ready, and we'll finish that check-up.” And he practically fled into his office.

Bob's spike certainly took its time in retracting from Sunstreaker's valve. Every time it moved, he found himself clenching down on it, waves of pleasure threatening to drown him all over again. They were alone, finally, and now he wanted _more_. When Bob at last was able to pull out, Sunstreaker followed him down onto the floor, petting and scritching and praising the bug.

When the Insecticon set to cleaning himself, Sunny stood and retrieved energon for them both as instructed. A small runnel of viscous transfluid oozed out of his still-bared valve and down his inner thigh, and he wiped it off with a finger after setting Bob's energon down in front of him. He raised his finger to his mouth and sucked the fluid off. It was thicker than a normal mech's, and more metallic tasting. His hand dropped to idly tease at his valve as he drank his fuel, gathering up more of the fluid slowly oozing from him.

He brought his hand back to his mouth when he finished the energon, noisily cleaning it, humming at the taste. Bob watched him intently, spike almost fully sheathed. Sunstreaker traced the rim of his valve and brushed over the small rise of his anterior node, making his vents hitch. When the bug's spike began to slip back out, he turned and dropped to hands and knees, exposing himself to his... mate. Yes. Bob was his mate, not his pet. Aft up, legs spread, shoulders down. Mating position.

“C'mon, Bob.” Sunstreaker wriggled in a way he hoped would prove enticing.

It did.

Bob pounced with a noise Sunny'd never heard from him before. It was exultant. A knowledge that he'd been accepted as mate, as if the breeding hadn't confirmed it but this completely willing and wilful submission did. His spike slipped into his mate easily and the rut he fell into was wild and glorious. He moved with abandon, straining into his mate, doing all he could to bring pleasure to the mech under him. Every overload he wrung out of the golden one was a victory, and there were many. It excited him, proving he was a good mate. His own overload came on slowly, inexorably, building and building, pressure, so tight, so good, so much pressure, he wouldn't – couldn't – last much longer, and

OH!

He roared out his release, sinking his teeth into the back of his mate's neck, deep enough to leave marks, but not enough to truly wound. His spike throbbed as it pumped thick transfluid through the open gate to his mate's tank. With the clutch growing within, it had become somewhat elastic, and it expanded with every fresh burst. So much fluid. They would have a strong clutch. Bob held his mate to him tightly, nuzzling him, tongue laving over the small punctures his teeth had left to soothe the hurts away.

 


End file.
